


Rise and Grind

by blarghe



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Multi, and some other twists, just for fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarghe/pseuds/blarghe
Summary: The Inquisition is sent through a rift and falls into a mysterious prison: a coffee shop. Not only do they have no apparent way home, they have no magic, no weapons, and no idea how to use the microwave. This story will havea few twists, many (& crack) ships, and a lot of silliness. Will the Inquisition ever get back home? Maybe! But it's going to be a strange ride.
Relationships: I will update these tags as they come, not all decided but there will be crackships
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. This is a Coffee Shop AU

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my ridiculous coffee shop au! This might be the most thoroughly planned thing I've ever attempted. I'm planning a few little twists that I'd like to keep mostly a surprise, but this story will remain mostly lighthearted and fun. I'm planning to work in quite a few ships, and I'll be sure to tag 'em, but for now they're mostly TBD.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

_In which the Inquisition is sent through a rift in spacetime_

* * *

The rift before them was crackling. It sputtered out flashes of green light and periodically erupted with the sounds of demonic screams. Space warped around it, sucking in anything that got too close. Inquisitor Lavellan held up her marked hand in an attempt to quell the rift's fury, but to no avail. Then, in an instant, the whole party was being sucked in.  
  
“Again?!” Came a yell from Dorian, exasperated, as he and the others were sent twirling through the vortex. When the spinning stopped, everyone landed at once with a _thud_ on the cold tile floor.

“Ow.” Moaned Varric, rubbing his behind as he lifted himself up off the floor to find himself at eye-level with a matching countertop. He looked himself and the others over, “what the... where in Andraste’s holy shithouse are we?”

The surroundings were indeed bizarre; linoleum floors, electric lights and polymer counters were not something any of the Inquisitor’s fearsome party of adventurers had ever encountered before. And the surroundings weren’t the only unfamiliar new materials facing them. Varric’s clothing had changed as well. In fact, everyone had somehow been re-dressed as they had passed through the mysterious rift. 

Varric seemed to be wearing more or less what he had been wearing a moment ago, only now instead of a sturdy leather coat, he wore a dark green apron over his deeply-unbuttoned shirt. The shirt had also mysteriously changed itself from dales-laden wool into an 80% cotton and polyester blend, which from a textural standpoint was truly disappointing. The others' outfits had undergone similar changes, though some more extreme than others.

Bull, for example, now sported a loose t-shirt, sturdy work boots, and ripped jeans, as well as an apron of his own, but most remarkably: his horns had vanished. He rubbed his head and muttered a quiet “what the fuck...” to himself.

Looks of confusion abounded as the others examined their new stylings; Sera had new shoes – high rise Converse with bright blue and yellow laces – she eyed them skeptically, Dorian was in a tight black shirt and tight black jeans under his apron and seemed happy enough with that, and Cassandra was...  
  
“A skirt?!” She exclaimed, just getting to her feet, “why am I in a skirt?!” It was a cute skirt, by any universe’s standards; high waisted and black. She wore a blue blouse tucked into it, and the green apron over top. “I demand to know what is going on here!” She shouted, to no one in particular.  
  
“This is a coffee shop AU.” Said Cole, plainly. He was wearing an oversized and slightly tattered grey sweater, blue jeans, and mismatched socks. He did not have an apron, nor shoes for that matter, but he did have a name-tag pin, like that on all the others' aprons. “Cole” it said, and in smaller letters underneath: “In Training”.

“A whaty-what-what?” Sera rose from the floor. Cole stared out over the counter at the rest of the shop, blankly.

“I believe what Cole is trying to say,” started Solas, also examining the environment, and also sporting the green apron over a new outfit consisting of loose cotton pants and a hemp tunic, “is that we've somehow been transported – perhaps we are in the fade, or perhaps this is another magic like that which took the Inquisitor and Dorian forward in time at Redcliffe – to an alternate sort of reality, in which we are the employees in a...café.”

“Huh?” Said Sera.

“You're shitting me.” Said Bull. 

“How do we get back?” Demanded Cassandra.

“Presumably the same way we came.” Solas replied

“About that...” Dorian interrupted, a troubled look on his face. He reached a hand out in front of him and flicked his wrist. Nothing happened. “I don't seem able to use magic here, wherever this is.” Solas tried as well, also to no avail.

“It seems you are correct. Something is blocking my abilities.”

“I don't feel so much blocked as... non-magical.” Replied Dorian with a slight shudder. He and Solas both donned very serious, almost-traumatized expressions at this.

“What? So you're both all normal?” Sera asked, “is that bad?” She paused, looking at Solas, then burst out laughing. “Hey elfy! Your ears have shrunk!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lookit your ears! They've gone all flatlike!”

Solas clasped a hand to his right ear. They were still pointed, slightly, but they were indeed flat to his head and almost the same in size and shape as human ears.

“Nevermind his ears, I've got no horns!” Shouted Bull. Sera clasped her hands to her ears as well.

"Andraste's tits! No more elves!”

Dorian looked thoughtful. “So does this mean that... wherever we are, elves and Qunari do not exist? Only humans?”

“And Dwarves!” Varric piped up. Indeed, he looked much the same.

“Cole, can you still hear our thoughts and feelings?” Dorian asked, still musing.

“I'm not sure. I want a latte.” Cole made himself a latte.

“The elves cannot simply cease to exist. It is impossible! Especially if we are indeed in the fade. The People are the oldest race in all of Thedas!” No one was listening to Solas.

The Iron Bull watched Cole closely as he crafted his latte.

“That smells awesome!” He bellowed, “show me how to do that.”

“Is no one else going to mention the atrocious décor?” Vivienne had already abandoned the ubiquitous dark green apron that had accosted her with its unsophisticated and plebian design, and stood wincing at her surroundings.  
  
The entire coffee shop had been modeled to look rustic and vaguely fantastical. Everything was painted with faux wood or gold textures, styled to resemble the world they had come from, but poorly. Fake candelabras lit with incandescent light bulbs illuminated the shop dimly, and paper scrolls with menus printed in a calligraphic typesetting sat laminated at each table. On the walls, however, were what seemed to be genuine artifacts of Thedas. A Coat of Arms bearing the Grey Warden crest, an Inquisition flag, a mage's staff, and what seemed to be a genuine drake skull were all up on display.

“Absolutely gaudy.” Complained Vivienne, as she eyed the walls.

“Bianca! What has this place done to you!?” Cried Varric, his eyes following Vivienne’s gaze up the wall to where his cherished crossbow hung. The bow no longer looked functional, and there was a plastic nerf-arrow glued into its crosshairs. The whole thing was also firmly glued to a wooden plaque, and bolted to the wall. Varric glared at it. 

Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and all heads turned to face the coffee shop’s backroom. The sound was soon followed by Blackwall, who stumbled out holding up both a genuine-looking wooden shield, and a completely blunted aluminum sword. Blackwall was not dressed in the same aproned manor as his companions, but appeared rather in a custodian’s jumpsuit. Vivienne sniggered. 

“There are, uh, a whole pile of weapons back there… but they aren’t really -” he poked the palm of his hand with the blunted tip of the imitation sword “- weapons.”

Cassandra rushed up to him and took the sword and shield, anyway. He looked her up and down. 

“Lady Cassandra, begging your pardon but,” he stifled a laugh, “what are you wearing?” 

She scowled at him. 

“We have got to figure out where we are, and how to get out of here.” Said the Inquisitor, and she strode quickly toward the front door of the shop. 

The front windows of the coffee shop looked out at a pleasant city street; several parked cars dotted the left side of the road, and various small boutiques, restaurants and other coffee shops seemed to be doing a steady stream of business with the well-dressed pedestrian traffic which shuffled along the sidewalks. Inquisitor Lavellan looked out at this foreign world briefly, her expression one of intrigue. Then, in the interest of not wasting time on staring, she flung open the coffee shop’s door. 

Outside the door, the world fell away. The Inquisitor had extended a leg to step out on, and found it met with absolutely nothing. The windows of the coffee shop shook, and a great howling wind blew through the empty white space which expanded outward and forever from the coffee shop door. The Inquisitor quickly pulled her leg back inside. She stood for a moment bracing herself against the doorframe, staring out at the chaotic nothing, her hair being violently whipped about by a directionless gale. She shut the door with a forceful slam. 

“What in the Void was _that_?” She shouted, apparently too shocked by the sudden appearance of a void to register the redundancy of the question. The shop windows had gone back to projecting a picture of idyllic metropolitan bustle, all sunny skies and happy shoppers. 

“So, just walking out the front door isn’t going to work then,” said Dorian, mostly to himself, “pity it couldn't be so simple. But then, what else is new?” 

“Solas? You have any bright theories on this?” The Inquisitor snapped. Solas was quiet, with one hand still absently rubbing at his left ear. 

“If a rift took us here, then a rift can take us out.” He offered, still sticking to his “leave the way we came in” theory. The Inquisitor frowned, reaching a hand up to her own head for the first time, overshooting and tapping at empty air before finding her own now-miniscule ear, and fiddling unhappily with a silver earring that was stuck through the cartilage of it. 

“I don’t _see_ any rifts.” She said, looking around the small interior with an analytical gaze.

“Maybe you can, you know,” Varric lifted his left hand up and wiggled his fingers in the air, making a soft “chhh” sound as he did. 

The Inquisitor blinked, shrugged, and lifted her left hand. “No… I - I don’t think I can.” She stopped, eyes growing wide as she brought her hand close to her face, and blinked in disbelief. “It’s gone.” 

Faces snapped up to attention: The Iron Bull stopped his inspection of the three different cardboard cartons of milk he’d found behind the counter (dairy, lactose free, and soy) to watch her inspect her naked hand. Sera took a few steps forward, standing up on her tiptoes to peer over the Inquisitor’s shoulder and see for herself. Varric opened his mouth to say something clever, but then closed it again without having come up with anything. Vivienne turned her unimpressed gaze from the crossbow up on the wall to the Inquisitor’s hand, unflinching. Blackwall ran a thick hand through his thick hair and made a grumbly sound. Cole peered wide-eyed over his brown paper cup, Dorian joined Sera in her curious inspection of the hand, and Solas went stiff, arms rigid at his side, his face as white as the foam on Cole’s latte.  
  
“What do you mean, _it’s gone_?” 

“There’s… there’s nothing there. No green glow, no flickering magic, no pull from the Fade, no…” The Inquisitor flexed her fingers slowly, bending them into a fist and releasing again. Then she did it two more times, faster, and turned her hand over and around in front of her face, wiggling her fingers free in the air. “No pain.” She whispered. 

Solas seemed to compose himself enough for movement, and strode quickly forward. He took the Inquisitor’s hand, cradling it gently in both of his own, and stroked the skin of her palm where the anchor used to be, running his fingers over the lines on her palm as his mouth fell open in quiet shock. Her hand wasn’t quite bare, however. Thin lines poked down from her wrist to peek out over the edge of her palm, and as the Inquisitor slowly rolled up her sleeve (plain black button down business shirt, a stylized eye embroidered into the chest pocket), a pale green tattoo was revealed, spread out over her wrist. It formed the shape of some foreign glyph, looking much like the ones they’d found in walls of ancient ruins under veilfire, but if this was ancient Elvhen, it wasn’t a symbol that either elf recognized. 

Solas’ brow furrowed. “It cannot simply be _gone_.” He muttered, half under his breath, wrinkles deepening over his forehead as he turned the Inquisitor’s wrist this way and that, as though playing peek-a-boo with it might entice the anchor to come back. 

“Solas…” Inquisitor Lavellan withdrew her arm from his manhandling, spreading the sleeve back down over her new tattoo as she did. “This has to be a dream, right? We’re dreaming. Or I’m dreaming?” 

“I don’t dream,” Varric spoke in an aggravated sort of mutter as he began to push a chair toward the wall underneath the framed Bianca, “but as far as I’m aware, dreams don’t usually happen in groups.” He lifted himself up onto the chair and began to pull at the bottom of the wooden plaque holding his crossbow. It didn’t budge. “My bet would be demons, and if I know demons, we should get this stuff back into working condition _now_.” He pounded at the side of the frame with his fist, trying to push it off the wall. “Bull?”

It took some punching and prying, as well as clever tricks of leverage as suggested by Sera, using a blunted aluminum sword and the plastic hilt of a too-light battleaxe, to pry Bianca off the wall and then out of her plexiglass-and-plywood frame, but once she was free Varric gave her firm leather grip a loving stroke and sighed. She was still as beautiful as ever; aside from some super glue holding her stirrup in place and the lack of ammunition, Bianca was still a functioning crossbow. He dug in the pockets of his trousers and pulled out a pocket knife. For a moment he stopped to examine the knife, which turned out to be a shiny silver-and-red device slotted with a seemingly endless number of little tools. He pulled out a miniature saw blade, a short blade, a nail file, a pair of scissors, two different screwdrivers (Philips and flat), and a corkscrew, admiringly flipping each component up and down a few times before setting to work on Bianca’s glue with the blade. “Yep, definitely still have Dwarves here.” He confirmed as he carefully poked a layer of hardened polymer off of Bianca’s trigger. 

The Inquisition assembled itself as defensively as it could, gathering up the least-flexible of the prop weapons behind the counter and equipping themselves with wooden shields and plastic helms, and prepared to await the coming demons. When after an hour none had arrived, the space behind the counter began to feel a little cramped. Bull stretched, gave his lack of horns another rub, and wandered out into the center of the cafe. 

Large burlap sacks of coffee beans could be found in barrels all around the shop, and some smaller paper bags were shelved on a display case near the door, helpfully labelled according to their roasts. Bull grabbed one playfully branded as “Demonblood Darkroast” and opened it, sticking his nose toward it with a heavy sniff. “Hoo!” He exclaimed, looking up from the bag with a devilish grin, “well if we _are_ asleep, I know one thing we could try.” He tossed the bag of coffee beans onto the counter where it landed with a quiet _thump_ , and Cole picked it up to pour some into the large mechanical coffee grinder. He confidently pulled down a large lever on its side, and the thing exploded into noise. There was a collective jump from everyone but Cole, and Cassandra swung round with her sword arm tense before taking in the function of the machine. 

“Nice.” Bull sniffed approvingly as the already vaguely caffeinated air sharpened in its scent of freshly ground, dark, rich coffee beans. Cole began the process of scooping ground coffee into the espresso machine, working with slow and careful concentration. Steam shot up at his press of a button, and he presented a tiny paper cup filled with inky black liquid dusted around the rim with a few frothy bubbles. Bull returned to the counter, took the cup, and threw it back. He waited expectantly for a few moments, then instructed Cole to start him another. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the Inquisitor’s companions spread out, examining their surroundings more closely for anything that might prove useful. It was not a large space, but there was more to the shop than had originally been obvious. The counter for coffee orders ran along the back wall, a display case of cakes and sandwiches stood between the large espresso machine and coffee grinder to one end, and a vintage cash register to the other. There were several low fridges built into the counter, as well as cupboards filled with both paper cups and porcelain mugs, and a large steel sink behind the espresso machine. A door behind the counter opened into a small kitchen, stocked with another sink, a small oven, a large microwave, and a sizable chest freezer filled with more cakes and sandwiches. 

The Inquisition party had already inspected the back room which Blackwall had come stumbling out of in their initial search for suitable weaponry, but as the shop continued to remain free of rampaging demons, Dorian and Vivienne took to searching it again, hoping to find clues to the puzzle they were in, or at least something better to wear. Sera poked around from room to room finding various fascinating trinquets; a set of keys, a flashlight, and a calendar of sorts that displayed the names of bizarre months beside amazingly realistic renderings of baby animals. There was a brief moment of excitement when she tested out the kitchen fire extinguisher, and Varric once again affirmed that this world must have dwarves. Vivienne, meanwhile, had found a safe, which Sera and Varric took to with Varric’s new multitool, leaning in close together. Dorian, at some point, uncovered a small yellow bit of paper stuck inside a desk drawer which had a string of numbers written on it that was unmistakably the safe’s code, but Sera shushed him as he tried to offer it out, and he quietly left them to it. 

Altogether, the prison which held them consisted of six distinct rooms. The main part of the building was the shop itself, a wide rectangular space populated with wooden tables and an approximation of Ferelden decor, then there was the small kitchen, off of which was found a smaller broom closet, filled with cleaning supplies, buckets, a toolbox and a ladder. Through a door marked _Employees Only_ on the cash register’s side of the cafe counter was a small carpeted office, which held the safe, a large wooden desk and two wooden chairs, and a tired looking brown leather couch. To the other side of the counter two doors opened into two restrooms, each with a single toilet, sink, mirror, and changing table. Fire escape plans were posted on the walls in each restroom, providing the Inquisition with a helpful map that indicated a back entrance in the shop’s kitchen, however that door, too, opened into a vast nothing. 

Outside the windows, the display of a bright sunny day grew into golden evening, and the traffic along the street increased, and then began to slow again. The images of people - all human - walking by throughout the day had seemed not to notice any of the goings-on within the shop, even when Sera had gotten up on Bull’s shoulders and batted at the ceilings and the Inquisitor had pounded on the windows. 

By evening, the Inquisitor’s companions had mostly stopped breaking things and rummaging, and were now settled into examining the finer items they’d found. Varric had managed to force his way into the safe, and found in it a bottle of whiskey, some coin and stacks of paper notes, and a thick stack of densely written documents on coffee shop ownership that he had indicated as even _further_ proof of a Dwarven population. Dorian was now busy burying his head in the stack of legal paperwork as Sera, Varric and Blackwall tested the whiskey. Cassandra was still occupying herself with the substandard armaments, attempting to sharpen the blunted blades and practicing swings with variously sized imitation swords. Vivienne took a seat near the window, and watched closely as the street traffic flowed past, sipping slowly at a large mug of mint tea which Cole had fashioned for her. Bull stayed with Cole, watching him operate the various steaming and frothing components of the espresso machine and directing him eagerly to mix various combinations of coffees and newly discovered sugared syrups. The Inquisitor rubbed at her left wrist and paced. 

The sun was reflecting in orange and gold off the high buildings lining the far side of the strange, unreal street outside when a woman appeared at the coffee shop’s door. She stood outside it for a few moments, seeming to peer in through the window in confusion, then cautiously tested the door handle. 

The Inquisitor stopped mid-pace, staring in surprise at the woman as she entered the shop and a quiet jingle rang out from a bell over the door. The Iron Bull and Cole looked up from the counter in surprise, and Vivienne coughed, choking on her tea and attempting to be polite about it. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t sure if you were open…” The woman explained, taking in the bare spots on the walls from which Bianca and some other promising-looking relics had been pried free with a look of slight confusion, “you guys don’t normally close until nine, right?” 

“Eleven on Saturdays.” Said Cole.

“E-Elan?” Exclaimed the Inquisitor uncertainly, her eyes widening as she took in the slight woman. She was no longer an elf, of course, and she wore similar fashions to the ones the rest of the party had found themselves in - a denim jacket over loosely tapered black trousers - but otherwise she looked entirely identical to the young herbalist’s apprentice who tended to Skyhold’s gardens. 

“Oh! You remembered my name,” the woman who appeared to be Elan blushed, “guess I’m a regular, huh.”

“Elan, you have to help us! What is this place? How did you get in here from...what is _out there?_ ” The Inquisitor began a stream of desperate questions, and Elan’s face recoiled in apparent shock. She chuckled nervously. 

“This like, a new thing you’re trying? Improv night?” 

“Don’t you remember us? Or the Breach that brought us here - did it bring you here too?” The Inquisitor continued asking, her voice rising in alarm with each question. 

“Are you perhaps a spirit?” Asked Solas, peeking out from the kitchen, where he had been spending the past few hours in fascination over the microwave. 

“Or a demon.” Challenged Vivienne, rising into an offensive stance, posing to summon an arcane weapon that did not appear. 

“I uh - I was actually just gonna get a -” Elan stepped cautiously around the panicked Inquisitor and toward the counter as Cole suddenly set to work at the espresso machine, setting a metal cup of soy milk under the steamer and carefully counting pumps of syrup aloud into a paper cup. “Chai latte…” Finished Elan as she arrived at the counter and was met by Cole, who was smiling sweetly and holding out her steaming beverage. She paused, watching Cole as Cole watched her, still smiling as he held out the drink. He blinked, Elan took the cup and a step back. “Thanks.” 

Elan held on to her beverage with one hand, and still looking curiously at Cole, dug into a pocket of her jacket with the other. The Inquisitor followed her to the counter and tried again. 

“Elan, please, you know us. You must be able to tell us something.” 

“Uh, I’d really just like to pay…” 

Cassandra had apparently had enough. She moved in a sudden lunge to grab Elan by the wrist, and in turn Elan’s drink was thrown, scalding Cassandra’s unfortunately bare thigh. Elan let out a shout as Cassandra struggled to recover her grip on her wrist. The Inquisitor cried out to Cassandra in startled protest, and then Elan broke free, and ran for the door. Cassandra and the Inquisitor both rushed to stop her, but she slipped away as the door opened, fading suddenly into the emptiness beyond, the door slamming decisively shut behind her. 

“I'd just like to be the first to say: well, shit.” Said Varric. 

“Yeah.” Said Bull, “shit.” 

Cassandra grunted, and took a seat on the floor next to the door. The Inquisitor returned to pacing. “So was she a spirit? Cole? Solas?” She asked as she traversed the line from the door to the counter and back. 

“She isn’t like me or you.” Said Cole. “She doesn’t remember.” 

“It does bode well, though, that so far the only people we have actually encountered are people from our world.” Solas spoke thoughtfully, coming out more fully from the kitchen now to lean against the counter behind the cash register and rub his chin. 

“What do you mean?” The Inquisitor asked, hope springing into her speech. 

“If this world is populated only with people from our memories, it seems more likely that this _is_ some sort of dream, however unlike one it may feel.” Solas continued, “though we have only encountered one other entity here thus far -”

“No, they are.” Vivienne interrupted, “all of them,” she nodded her head toward the window, where a now empty street lay lamplit under a clear night sky, “every person who has walked by has been from _our_ reality. I recognized countless faces from Court, the Ferelden nobility, and Inquisition soldiers alike.” She tapped her fingernails against her empty mug. “Which means this must be a dream, yes? Most likely controlled by some demon. We need only find this enemy, and slay it.” She surmised efficiently. Solas made a thoughtful sound and rubbed his chin again. 

“Maybe it’s the opposite.” Dorian wondered aloud as he went to the refrigerated display case and took a thin slice of cake with him to sit at one of the tables in the middle of the shop. “Maybe instead of waking up, we simply need to fall asleep.” 

“Couldn’t have thought of that _before_ I drank six of those things?” Bull called over his shoulder from where he was now crouched examining the offerings of the sandwich display. He took several sandwiches from the case and sat, a leg bouncing impatiently under the table, across from Dorian. “I feel like I could stay awake for _days_.” 

Dorian suddenly held up a hand, silencing whatever anyone was about to say next and grabbing excitedly onto the laminated _Specials_ menu on the table in front of him. “Nightingale the Bard!” He shouted. “That’s Leliana.” Bull leaned forward to watch as Dorian pointed and read off of the promotional blurb: 

“ _Saturdays at seven pm - Open Mic Night and performances by Nightengale the Bard.”_

He stopped, looking around excitedly. “Sera! What day is it?” Sera came forward from the office, where she had apparently been drinking whiskey and flipping through a Hazerdous Materials Handing and Workplace Safety training manual she and Blackwall had found near the cleaning supplies, missing the whole affair with Elan completely. 

“What? I don’t know, it _was_ Friday, but who knows if they even _have_ days out in the _nothing_.” A momentary grim shadow passed over her face, and she took a quick swig from the paper cup filled with whiskey she held in her hand. 

“You found a calendar, didn’t you?” 

“Oh!” 

Sera ran back into the office and fetched the calendar. She and Dorian then quickly determined the date, and matched it to several events listed on the menu. Some events, like Open Mic nights on Saturdays and a Buy-One-Get-One-Free Special on Seasonal Drinks (medium size and up only) on Sunday afternoons were recurring, while others, such as Costumed Speed Dating (Oct. 31st) appeared to be one-time events. Varric began hastily writing information down on napkins. Between them, they determined that it _was_ still Friday, and October 16th, as far as the coffee shop’s calendar was concerned. Sera circled the dates mentioned by the flyer in red on the calendar, and propped it up on display on a table in the centre of the room. 

“Alright, so we’re supposed to see Leliana tomorrow, yeah?” She reasoned. “So if we sleep now and don’t wake up someplace _real,_ we grab her and make her tell us how to get out of this shite. If she’s anything like our Nightingale, she’ll know.” 

“Good a plan as any.” Agreed Varric. His sentiment appeared to be shared by Blackwall and The Iron Bull, who retreated with Sera into the office to, with further aid from the bottle of whiskey, work on getting to sleep. 

Solas fell asleep almost immediately, still apparently able to meditate himself into slumber no matter where he sat, and he opted to do it while sitting cross-legged atop the chest freezer in the kitchen. Cole curled up somewhat stiffly on a bench seat by the front of the cafe, Vivienne sighed and stretched her legs out across a second chair. Cassandra remained where she was, leaned against the door with one hand on her dismal aluminum sword. The Inquisitor eventually took the couch in the Office, and Dorian eventually forced himself to lose a battle with wakefulness as he finished reading through the legal documents detailing the regulations and responsibilities incurred through coffee shop ownership, which by their end seemed to have provided absolutely no valuable insights whatsoever. 


	2. Open Mic Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a very tired Inquisitor must host a charity event.

The Inquisitor did not sleep. Try as she might, she couldn’t get the image of desolate blankness out of her head, and every time she closed her eyes instead of darkness she was met with visions of that unending white, and the feeling of violently empty winds in her hair. She tossed and turned upon the couch restlessly for a while, then got up and quietly moved to the main part of the shop. She looked out the windows at empty streets, taking in the oddly geometric shapes of the buildings that stood across the darkly paved road, but the thought of the thinly veiled nonexistence which they masked made her shudder, so she got up and set to uncovering every nook and cranny of the shop. 

Armed with the apparently still-intact stellar eyesight of an elf and a map from the bathroom wall, she quietly poked around in the broom closet, taking inventory of the volatile ingredients stored there. She opened cupboards, pocketed various stray items (manuals for various appliances, rubber gloves, a collection of teabags, a spoon), and read every label on every milk carton and syrup bottle she found. By the time that the sun rose again outside on the display of a city street, she had taught herself the basic principles of how to make coffee with the machinery before her. 

The weather this day was different, rainy. Why the unreality outside insisted on being dynamic, the Inquisitor couldn't guess, but the quiet patter of rain against the window and somber grayness of the sky was unsettling. Normally she liked a good, quiet, rainy day, but the darkness of the sky outside felt foreboding. Not to mention, she was  _ tired, _ and the rhythmic sound of raindrops wasn’t helping. With a couple large carafes of coffee made and the others beginning to wake up, it was too late to try at sleep. Dorian’s idea didn’t make a whole lot of sense anyway, she wagered, and more than that she  _ wanted _ to see what this world’s Leliana had to say. She’d tackle the day first, find Leliana and a way out, and sleep when they got home. 

“We need a plan.” She said, choosing a slice of coffee cake to eat for breakfast along with her very tall paper cup of actual coffee. 

Cassandra sniffed at her own cup of coffee suspiciously. “I agree.” She said, pulling two tables together to create a makeshift war table. On it she laid one of the laminated fire escape plan maps, a Specials menu, and the pile of napkins which Varric had covered in half-legible notes. 

Dorian lifted his head from the thick stack of papers he’d fallen asleep atop, and made a slow, grumbly procession toward the coffee. Filling one of the large porcelain mugs from the cupboard, he took a cautious sip, made a face, and then moved to examine the cartons of dairy products, finally adding a healthy drop of cream to his mug. He stared out the window silently as he drank it, some calculation clearly still puzzling itself out in his mind. 

“It looks so  _ real _ .” He muttered, mostly to himself. Varric came up beside him with his arms crossed unhappily. 

“Real miserable.” He said. 

“Quite.” Agreed Dorian. 

Breakfast was easy enough to manage. The coffee, cakes and sandwiches were certainly real enough, though they ate everything cold. It was determined once again that, real as it looked, the world outside would fall away into nothing beyond any opened doors. Sera poured the last of the whiskey into her coffee as recompense for still being trapped in a prison surrounded by eternal nothing, and went on with testing out all the novel little devices the shop had to offer; whipped cream canisters and blenders and a digital clock with buttons that beeped. Soon she was throwing bits of things together in an attempt to make explosive traps. Varric was firmly on board with her idea, joining her in researching the potential harm that could be caused with cleaning products and desperately searching for things he could use to fashion real crossbow bolts, but in terms of how to actually proceed, the Inquisition was divided. 

“Are we sure we  _ want _ to do this world’s Leliana harm?” Solas asked, watching Sera shake up a whipped cream canister and spray some directly into her mouth (“gotta empty it somehow, right?”) with a concerned expression. Beside him, Cole was shaking his head, his own face a match for Solas’. 

“No.” Said Cole, “It wasn’t fair to scare Elan like that. I don’t want to hurt the Nightingale.”

“Relax, kid, it wasn’t… it wasn’t really Elan.” Said Varric, with a little too much inflection at the end of his phrase for it to sound reassuring. Cole frowned. 

“Cole has a point,” remarked the Iron Bull, who was now also closely watching the world through the window, where people were beginning to trickle down the sidewalks under colourful umbrellas, “she seemed to know us, she thought we belonged here.” He took a large bite of his breakfast sandwich, swallowing just over half of it before continuing. “So that means that the Leliana in that advertisement might think so too. What if we let her?” 

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “Pretend to belong?” She looked about her surroundings with a scowl, “ _ here _ ?” 

“Sometimes the best way to beat a spy, is to be a spy.” The Iron Bull advised, and Dorian began to pace. 

“It’s not a bad idea. We might have more luck questioning a spirit than fighting one, _if_ these people are spirits…" Dorian paused in is pacing, "And we have no way of knowing what this Leliana could be capable of. Elan shared a name, and she knew us, but we scared her off before determining more.” 

“You lot talk to the demons, I’ll be ready to keep us  _ not dead _ .” Muttered Sera through a mouthful of whipped cream. 

Solas sighed. “If we could learn what exactly this place is, and how these spirits came to be, the answer to our escape may lie within.” He cautioned, and Sera sprayed more whipped cream into her mouth while responding with a rude hand gesture. 

“Are we sure they even  _ are _ spirits?” Dorian asked, looking at Cole. Cole shook his head. 

“Spirits or demons.” Said Vivienne, “what else could they be? I’d take any information we glean from them with a degree of caution, and be prepared for the worst.”

“When Cassandra attacked Elan, she didn’t turn into a demon or even fight back.” Solas noted, “she simply ran away, clearly shocked and terrified.” 

“A spirit or demon would have lost its disguise and attacked back, generally.” Dorian finished, jumping onto Solas’ train of thought. 

“So they’re very confused spirits?” Blackwall suggested, furrowing his brows. 

“Perhaps…” Said Dorian, and he went back to thoughtful pacing. 

“We need functioning weapons, regardless. None of us knows what could happen.” Said Cassandra, at which Blackwall nodded. 

The Inquisition split into two groups. One, consisting of Sera, Blackwall, Varric, Cassandra and the Iron Bull, focused on preparing some semblance of weapons and traps with which to combat a potentially demonic Leliana. The other group, Dorian, Solas, Vivienne, and (to some extent) Cole, set to work on making the interior of the shop presentable again. 

There were several garish tears in the wallpaper from places where the weapon-like decor had been ripped off the walls, and a veritable mess of blender parts and other various scrap behind the counter. Nothing much could be done about the structural damage to the ceiling and walls which Sera-on-Bull’s-shoulders had inflicted the day before, but by late afternoon the interior of the shop had been more or less reassembled and the Traps and Weapons team had come up with a sizeable selection of things that could stab or explode as needed. The Inquisitor kept herself busy, flitting between both groups to either advise or assist, and continuously drinking coffee. 

It wasn’t long after the completion of these quests, around 5:30pm by the clock - which had been positioned helpfully over the spot where Bianca used to be, doing a terrible job of concealing the wound she’d left in the wallpaper - that a cautious rapping came at the door to the shop. The Inquisitor emerged from where she had been leading one last meeting to settle their plan of attack (or, more accurately, information gathering with the potential for an attack), to find Commander Cullen standing at the door under a large black umbrella with a long hooked handle. 

The Inquisitor opened the door and greeted him loudly enough to raise the attention of everyone else still in the back room. Cole sprang to action by stationing himself once more behind the coffee counter, while the Commander looked around at the walls curiously. 

“Redecorating?” He asked.

“S-something like that.” Stammered the Inquisitor, as she stared dumbfaced at Cullen while he shook the water from his umbrella and leaned it by the door. “How-w-why are you here?”

Cullen gave her a questioning look. “It’s Saturday…” 

Bull interrupted to rescue the Inquisitor then, employing some of his famed Qunari Spy training to pat the Inquisitor heartily on the back and laugh. “Don’t mind the boss, she didn’t sleep. He’s here for the show, remember?”

The Inquisitor blinked. She hadn’t considered that if Leliana was scheduled to appear in this strange non-place, that her other advisors might be along too. “R-right.” She attempted to lessen the intensity of her stare, “you’re early.” 

“No, the girls are late. Like always. Leliana probably had to change shoes again… where’s all the stuff?” 

_ Girls. _ Plural. Josephine too? The Inquisitor wondered if this Cullen knew how to use a sword; they might need a new attack plan if he did. “What stuff?” She asked, dumbly. 

“Heaven’s sake, you ok? Don’t worry about it, I can help with the lights.” As Cullen began his way toward the back office, Sera and Dorian came out together. Sera grimaced, and quickly turned right back around, while Dorian quickly masked his look of surprise to guide the Commander away from the door, behind which the newly fortified office was filled with all the mess that had been swept out of the main shop. 

“Read the sign, Commander,” Dorian quipped in a jaunty tease, “why don’t you just make yourself comfortable out here.” Cullen’s face went red as Dorian led him by the elbow up to the coffee counter. 

“Not you too.” Cullen muttered, “it’s bad enough all the kids started calling me that. Which one of them told you?” 

Dorian hesitated, but Bull came to the rescue once more. “You know, tall, kind of lanky... Dark hair, bounces when he talks, smells a bit funny…” 

Cullen sighed. “Jeremy.” He shook his head. “Do me a favour and just give him decaf.” 

Bull chuckled conversationally. “You got it, Commander.” He laughed again as Cullen shook his head with another embarrassed sigh. “Said we should see the look on your face, and well, the  _ look _ on your face!” 

Cole came forward and silently handed Cullen a steaming cup of something dark and sweet smelling, like chocolate and spice. “We’re out of whip.” He said apologetically. Cullen took the cup and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Uh, thanks.” He looked to Bull, who was standing nearer to the cash register. “What do I owe?” 

“On the house.” Bull said quickly, eying the as-yet unopened cash register with suspicion. 

“Thanks, but you guys do enough charity for me.” Said Cullen, and he dropped a paper note into the jar next to the register that was labelled SHOW ME YOUR TIPS in red scrawl that was, somehow, unmistakably Sera’s. 

“Sera, bring out the lights!” The Inquisitor called quickly in the direction of the office, as Cullen went to a table with his hot cocoa and began arranging chairs so that they faced the front of the shop. “they’re, uh…” 

“In the chest behind the desk.” Cullen finished for her, he had taken a seat at one of the tables and was sipping the cocoa appreciatively, but made to get up again as the Inquisitor seemed to struggle to remember how to set up for the weekly Open Mic Night. She held up a hand, indicating that he should stay, and he shrugged, going back to his drink. 

“How did you know that would work?” Dorian whispered to Bull, where they were both now watching Cullen from behind the counter. 

“Weren’t you ever a kid? I just described any teenage boy.” Bull replied. Varric joined them then, coming out of the office with Sera and a large coil of string lights. 

“I never smelled funny.” Dorian huffed. 

“Sparkler came out of the womb preening.” Interrupted Varric, to a nice glare from Dorian. “So operation Spy Stuff just got a lot more complicated, huh?” 

“It seems to me that this is an opportunity to learn more about this place and the spirits that inhabit it.” Remarked Solas, also joining the line of Cullen-watchers forming behind the counter. 

“Seems to me that Varric is right, and this could go south easy.” Muttered Blackwall, as he dutifully brought a ladder out into the shop from the supply closet behind them.

The Inquisitor interrupted their chatter, pointing Blackwall and Bull toward Sera to help her string the lights around the walls of the shop, and making frantic eye-contact-and-nodding gestures between Cullen, Varric and Dorian. 

Varric raised his hands up and shook his head in the universal silent reply of “don’t look at me”, and Dorian squinted at Cullen. 

“Alright, I’ll show you how it’s done.” Said Dorian, not taking his eyes off the Commander, who sipped at his beverage, pulled away abruptly, and then blew on it. Dorian left the counter and strode confidently up to where Cullen was seated, and pulled up a chair alongside him. 

“So, Commander,” he crooned, grinning as Cullen blushed again, “come here often?”

Cullen took a large gulp of his drink, then cleared his throat as his face went redder still with the heat of it. “Very funny.” He muttered, after he had finished composing himself. “Isn’t this usually your night off?”

Dorian took the response in stride with a sweet smile,“Open Mic Night? Why would I miss that?” 

“Because it’s Saturday night and every club in town is having costume masquerades from now until Halloween?” Cullen responded, more an unhappy guess than a factual answer. Dorian pondered the information for a moment. 

“That does sound rather more fun, actually.” He admitted, “but this was for a good cause.” 

“You never struck me as being much for charity events.” Cullen looked pleasantly surprised. Remarkably easy to read, that man, Dorian noted with amusement. Or perhaps he was just good. 

“Oh, charity? No, I meant getting to see _you_ of course, Commander.” Dorian let the title trail out on a long flirtatious note, smiling as Cullen blushed again. “But tell me more about your organization anyway.” Perhaps it was both.

“Well you know Haven.” Cullen shrugged, “we always need money for more staff and beds. Now that schools are starting up again, we’ve lost a few of our volunteers so…” 

“Pretend I don’t.” Interrupted Dorian, still smiling sweetly. 

“What?”

“Pretend I don’t know anything about it. What drew you to this...Haven?”  


Cullen eyed him suspiciously. “I guess I was just feeling the lapsed Catholic guilt, so I started looking for a more progressive church to attend and...well that was years ago. Anyway, there weren’t any good shelters in the city for youth that were, you know, accepting of everyone, so we started Haven and we’ve been helping kids ever since.” He shrugged again. “I knew too many people growing up who could have used a place like that.” 

Dorian nodded along, and his expression appeared thoughtful as he sifted through this new information for his next comment. “So it’s a religious organization? If I’ve avoided your fundraisers that’s why,” he offered, in a tone that seemed to be more thinking aloud than responding, “not for dance clubs. I do apologize though, for not...helping kids.” 

“Oh! Really?” Cullen looked hopeful, “because you should know, the church is really only nominally Christian. We accept everyone of all faiths, we even have holiday services for Passover and Ramadan and things like that…” 

“How lovely.” Dorian prompted him on with an approving comment, even though he had absolutely no idea what any of those words had meant. 

“And I mean, Haven is full of kids who’ve been pushed out of their homes or other shelters for not conforming to whatever rigid rules they have.” 

“How do you mean?” Dorian raised an eyebrow. He might be great at getting information, but none of it pointed to a solution. Haven, a shelter for the poor and wretched youth of some shiny nonexistant world? He supposed it lined up, in a sense. No breach in the sky, no mention of magic or demons or darkspawn, just foreign modernity and a familiar personality.  


Cullen looked  _ exactly _ like Cullen, but he didn’t quite sound like him. He was lighter; maybe a little tense, but altogether less tightly wound. If this fantasy dreamscape they’d been trapped in was truly one without the Breach, maybe everyone would be. He was far away, wondering what kind of spirit or demon or  _ otherwise _ sort of entity would trap them in an otherworldy utopia, and  _ why,  _ when he caught that Cullen was answering his question. 

In fact, Cullen was on a roll now, clearly headed off on a proud little speech he'd given many times before. "We take people in no matter their history, so we get a lot of kids who've been deemed 'trouble' elsewhere; kids kicked out for fighting, or struggles with addiction, problems at school, or just for their sexuality…" 

"For their what?" 

Cullen sighed. "You know, big as this city is, it can really behave like a small town sometimes. Some of our kids have been kicked out by their parents simply for who they are... It's tragic that I have to include that in the pitch, but we always make a point of being vocal about our LGBT support." 

Dorian sat staring at him, processing. He still didn't quite follow what all the words and acronyms being used meant, but he could infer. He was something of an intellectual prodigy, after all. 

"Let me get this straight," he began after a long, contemplative pause, leaning in, "in this worl _ -town,"  _ Talking like there was a  _ city _ out there, with shit parents in it just like in every city back home, but no Breach, "you run a shelter for abandoned youth, and you come  _ here _ to...drink coffee and raise money for your cause?" 

"Yes. Can we stop pretending like you don't know now? I'm sure you got a good enough quote for your blog or whatever this interrogation was for." 

Bog? Dorian almost asked, but thought better of it. "Tsk tsk," Dorian smiled sweetly once more and regarded Cullen with what he hoped was a teasing, and not overtly confused, shake of his head, "I ask only to get to know you better,  _ Commander _ . As you say, I've neglected these little events too long." 

Cullen was blushing again and, truth be told, Dorian's own cheeks were also growing surprisingly hot. Besides the mistifying situation he found himself in, he now had  _ all of this _ in front of him. His heart had never quite stopped pattering too fast as this approximation of Cullen Rutherford, who'd apparently left fighting for the Chantry behind in favour of humanitarianism, went on seeming very  _ real _ . He stood from his seat with more clumsy quickness than was characteristic of him, and excused himself with a hasty "just give me a moment", then rushed through the  _ Employees Only _ door to fall, head swimming with new information, upon the big lumpy couch. 

Still in the office were Cassandra and the Inquisitor. Cassandra was peeking out occasionally at the facsimile of the Commander out in the shop, while the Inquisitor stood over the desk, rubbing her temples. 

"We need a new plan." Dorian conferred, as all the attention in the room fell on his dramatic entrance.

"What? Why? What did Cullen...the thing that looks like Cullen - what did it have to say?" 

"He's here to raise money for disadvantaged youth." Dorian said. "I think I like him better than ours. Maybe we can keep him." 

Cassandra snorted, and cast him a hard scowl. 

Discussion as to what to do about Cullen, however, was soon interrupted by another jingle of the bell over the shop's front door. Inquisitor Lavellan, Cassanda, and finally Dorian, all filed into the front of the shop to find three women shaking out the drops from their umbrellas. 

A redheaded woman in a long tan trenchcoat and tall brown leather boots shook out an umbrella patterned with various musical iconography; scattered clefs and notes in black and white. Her face was obscured under a thick scarf, but that soft, accented voice was unmistakable as she apologized for the lateness of their arrival. She had arrived with two other women, one scowling under the burgundy hood that stuck out from under a short black leather coat, and one smiling as she looked up to greet their onlookers. They removed their coats and leaned their umbrellas up together - Joesphine’s red with the black spots of a ladybug, Morrigan’s black with tiny bat wings - as Cullen rose to greet them, Cole set to work on the espresso machine, and the rest of the Inquisition stared. 

Between them, Morrigan, Leliana and Josephine carried several odd pieces of strange equipment. Leliana had a guitar slung in a case over her shoulder, Morrigan held a large black bag over her shoulder, out of which were spilling various wires, and Josephine was carrying promotional posters and a small lockbox. They also had questions. 

“Why was the sign turned to closed?” Asked Josephine, fixing it as she noticed it; a small sign hung on a string in the window of the front door said “open” on one side, and “closed” on the other, she flipped it around so that the word “open” would be on display. 

“Why does it look like a bomb went off in here?” Asked Leliana, scanning the poorly disguised tears in the wallpaper, now decorated over with string lights.

“Why is nothing set up?” Complained Morrigan, already digging in her bag for extension cords and tape. 

The Inquisitor did her best to act natural, and to get her people to do the same. Some were better at it than others. Dorian, the Iron Bull, and Vivienne offered to help Morrigan with her setup of the tech needed for the night, Varric and Blackwall quietly arranged chairs and tables according to Josephine’s careful instruction, and Solas stationed himself with Cole behind the coffee counter, smoothing out his face and offering calm conversation and probing with gentle questions as patrons began to filter into the now-opened cafe. Meanwhile, Sera and Cassandra hid in the office; guarding the secret mess of destructive devices from anyone who tried to get too close, and scowling at how normal all these imitations of familiar faces seemed. 

By 7:00 pm, the coffee shop was ready for its charity event. A stool sat near the window, accompanied by the small amp and a microphone in a tall metal stand. Morrigan hadn’t wholly appreciated the technical help offered her by the fumbling Inquisition, exclaiming at one point that “these fools wouldn’t know the male end of an aux cord if it plugged itself into their asses”, which despite being a mostly unintelligible insult had driven Vivienne to quit being helpful, and join Cassandra in the office, but the work had somehow gotten done. Cullen was manning the door, taking donations and welcoming people into the shop. Leliana was engaged in conversation with Cole and Solas, apparently finding their strange questions and curious comments endlessly interesting, and Josephine was attempting - with well-masked frustration - to remind the Inquisitor as to how to host an open mic night. 

The crowd that gathered inside the shop was small, but growing. People trickled into the shop, some leaving donations in the small lockbox Josephine had set up on a table supervised by Cullen, and lined up at the coffee counter before finding seats. It had taken some prodding, but the Inquisitor had managed to get Sera to take the cash register, and she had figured out the buttons well enough to charge everyone for a medium latte, no matter what they actually ordered. She gave each person who asked a different snappy excuse for the price, and was taking in cash and making change with the sort of concentration that didn’t allow for any interference.

The Inquisitor was rubbing her wrist again, while Josephine calmly explained the details of who to thank, how to organize the sign up list and MC between performances. She had notes, just in case, but it could do nothing to assuage the Inquisitor's apparent stagefright. 

"You speak in front of crowds  _ all the time _ ." Josephine reminded her reassuringly, "there's nothing new to this, just introduce the acts, watch the time and don't let them go over, and remind everyone what a great cause this is all for." 

"I-I'm just going to - I think I need another coffee." The Inquisitor tapped her fingers quickly over the spot on her wrist that she had been rubbing. 

"How many have you had today?" Josephine watched after her with concern as the Inquisitor quickly shuffled away to catch her breath in a bathroom stall. 

Vivienne had been right, every single person in that crowd was in some way familiar. She had a memory for faces, especially the ones that seemed to watch and oggle her every move. Here, she didn’t have the scrutiny or the whispers, just a crowd of strangely familiar faces mingling about over warm drinks on a cool night. After the last two times that magic had tremendously messed with her reality, this was an alarmingly pleasant bit of nonsense. But somewhere out there was still a world-threatening abomination, and she  _ really  _ didn’t have time for nonsense. 

She blinked at herself in the mirror on the bathroom wall. Her dark hair was tucked back; she left it like that so often that she hardly ever even thought about it, but now it revealed her humanized ears. She grimaced, tracing the only slightly pointed tip of one with a finger, and her heart ached as she trailed her finger along her plain face. She blinked again, this time willing away tears, and rubbed her eyes. The lack of sleep was making her emotional,  _ fragile,  _ she recognised, but she was still herself, and she could choose to be neither of those things. A resourceful plan with spycraft and traps, she reminded herself, was just her sort of thing. They’d figure it all out and go home. 

Performers signed up on sheets which Josephine kept on a clipboard. She quickly organized the lineup, and helped to get the first performers organized before the Inquisitor took the mic to make introductions. Josephine handed her a stack of cue cards and gave her a slight nudge toward the microphone. The Inquisitor coughed into it hesitantly. 

Reading off the cue cards, the Inquisitor mumbled through her introduction. 

“Hello, welcome to Skyhold." She looked up, the crowd didn't seem to be paying her all that much attention, "I’m, um, your host for the evening.” On the first card in the stack were some notes about thanking someone called Sam for providing something called sound equipment, which she guessed meant the amplifying device she was speaking through. Another cue card told her to “promote Haven a little, remind about 50% proceeds tonight to good cause”, so the Inquisitor said “Haven is great and uh, half the proceeds tonight go to a good cause.” The last cue card said “thank audience, Leliana.”, and the Inquisitor said, “Thank you all for coming. And thank you Leliana for performing tonight.” Then she blinked out at the crowd, who were honestly looking a little blurry in the dim light, cleared her throat again, and stepped away from the mic. 

Josephine took over, introducing the first performer from her list, who was no one that the Inquisitor could place, but who played a couple slow songs with an acoustic guitar that were quite adequate. As the music went on, Josephine came up beside her and gave her arm a gentle pat. 

“You really don’t look well. Is something wrong?”

“Just tired.” She answered, feeling oddly comforted by Josephine’s familiar concern.

“I can do the rest. Take the night off, enjoy the show for once.” 

She nodded, taking a seat at a back table; whatever this was, she’d likely never see anything like it again. She might as well just watch. 

The show went on. Soon, the Inquisitor was joined at her table by the rest of her companions - even Cassandra - and in between sets they pulled a few tables together into the more shadowy back end of the shop, with Cole jumping up occasionally to tend to customers at the counter. 

There was poetry, and music, and even a few sets of jokes. Most of the patrons and performers were only vaguely familiar, no one so close as her advisors or close partners in Skyhold, though a few stood out. A jester she was  _ sure  _ she had seen at the Winter Palace did a magic trick that was decidedly not magic, and Lace Harding told jokes that grew increasingly inappropriate until Josephine finally cut her off. 

“Hey, you know the chef from the Little Mermaid? Yeah, yeah that was messed up right? But, you think he saw Ariel go back to the ocean and was just like, ‘I wonder what her butt tastes like?’”

Scattered laughter, Josephine stepping in. “Thank you Lace,” 

“I mean, her butt’s made out of fish, right? I could do worse with this joke, Josie.”

Laughter, and a stray woop. 

“I’m here every week!” 

With that final bit of excitement, Josephine introduced the night’s headlining act; Nightingale the Bard. There was applause, and Leliana took the stage, armed with a guitar. 

“Hi, thanks for coming out tonight and supporting this great cause. I wanted to start things off tonight with an old classic. We’re raising money tonight and you know, this one used to really bring it in when I was living on the streets after my mom died - that’s not a reference to a popular sitcom, that just happened.” She smiled, giving a little laugh to her own joke, “And you know, without places like Haven, the world is a dark place. This really is such a wonderful cause, they’re a fantastic organization, and if you ever need help, their door is always open.”

She strummed the guitar, picking out the arpeggios of the chords and humming a quiet intro to the song. The crowd, Inquisition included, was entranced. Of course the Inquisitor knew that Leliana had been a bard, and that bards sang, but back in the real Skyhold she had never heard it. Her voice was gentle and soft, building over the slow melody. While she sang, time seemed to slow. The coffeeshop was warm and rich smelling, the clinking of spoons and occasional murmur in the crowd a pleasant backdrop to the music. Rain was falling softly outside. The Inquisitor found her head beginning to bob toward her chest. 

_ “It's gettin' dark, too dark to see _

_ I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door _

_ Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door” _

Lelianna smiled over another little laugh, “Knock, knock, knockin' on _H_ _ aven's _ door…”

The Inquisitor’s head nodded to one side, her eyes closed under a heavy resistance, and before anyone at her dark table could notice, she lost the sound of Leliana’s singing to the dark, and fell asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cullen's a Unitarian now, fight me.  
> *Am I setting up for Cullen x Dorian? YOU'LL SEE (probably yes)  
> *In all seriousness character backstories for these silly doppleganger NPCs aren't that fully thought out but suffice it to say that while things do connect, a lot of the angst is erased. Not all, just a lot.  
> *Leliana thinks puns are great and that her own jokes are delightful FIGHT ME.  
> *No I don't know what other jokes Harding was going to make.


End file.
